


Ticks on a Door Frame

by disfictional



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, John Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Challenge, TFP is not really canon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disfictional/pseuds/disfictional
Summary: 83.8 cm.John stares at the numbers, still clutching the pencil that wrote them sloppily in one hand, his mobile in the other. 83.8 cm and an accompanying tick mark scratch the white moulding above Rosie’s golden curls. 83.8 is exactly 2.4 cm taller than the last mark made four months ago, when John, Rosie, and Sherlock’s lives took on a sense of normalcy again. Rosie’s growing a bit slower than average, but she is a Watson, after all.83.8 cm is how tall Rosie is when John finds out Harry Watson has been seriously injured in a car accident.
Relationships: Clara/Harry Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 159





	Ticks on a Door Frame

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. 
> 
> This story does involve an alcohol-related death, so please be wary if that is a triggering topic for you. I want to stress that both Sherlock and John are receiving professional help for drug and alcohol abuse here, because while having a loving friend and partner certainly helps, these issues require professionals. 
> 
> I promise you an unambiguously happy ending, and even a bit of lightness along the way, despite some dark themes.

83.8 cm. 2 years

John stares at the numbers, still clutching the pencil that wrote them sloppily in one hand, his mobile in the other. 83.8 cm and an accompanying tick mark scratch the white moulding above Rosie’s golden curls. 83.8 cm is exactly 2.4 cm taller than the last mark made four months ago, when John, Rosie, and Sherlock’s lives took on a sense of normalcy again. Rosie’s growing a bit slower than average, but she is a Watson, after all.

Recording Rosie’s height on a door frame had actually been Mary’s idea- it’s one of the few reminders of Mary John keeps in his new flat, a quaint Victorian-style rental in Brixton. John’s family had never been sentimental, and he liked the idea of seeing physical evidence of Rosie’s growth. It’s a way for both of them to start over. Every milestone, John’s decided, he’s going to make a tick. The last was the day they moved in here; the day John sold his place in the suburbs. The day John let go of the life he had made for himself in that house. It’s 83.8 cm today, and they’re celebrating Rosie’s second birthday.

83.8 cm is how tall Rosie is when John finds out Harry Watson has been seriously injured in a car accident.

John looks out into the sitting room of his flat to the small gathering of people here to celebrate Rosie’s birthday. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Molly are chatting over cake, Mike Stamford and his wife are pouring mimosas, and Sherlock is looking concernedly at John, clearly sensing that whatever John just heard on his mobile, it wasn’t good news.

Harry was supposed to be here, too.

John drops the pencil and leans against the moulding, breathing heavily. Rosie looks up at him, the way her nose scrunches reminding John so much of how his equally precocious sister used to look at him when she thought he was being ridiculous. “Buck up, Johnny!” Harry would tease.

The A&E staff member he spoke with on the phone didn’t give many details, so John can only speculate as to how- or why- the accident happened. He feels a hand on his lower back, both grounding and tentative in a way that can only be Sherlock’s. In the last couple of months, he’s become used to Sherlock’s small, reassuring touches. A brush of fingers when giving John a cup of tea. The briefest of shoulder rubs when Sherlock deduces John’s had a rough night with Rosie, or a particularly challenging therapy session. Fingers mussing John’s hair when he’s made a rude comment about Mycroft. A short hug nearly every time John leaves Baker Street. The two of them are on their way to being more comfortable with each other than they have been in years, and John is grateful for it.

“Harry?” Sherlock asks knowingly, leaning down to scoop Rosie into his arms. John steadies himself and stands straight. “She’s in hospital. Head injury, broken ribs, punctured lung. She’s gone and gotten herself into a nasty car accident.” John attempts to roll his eyes, but they betray him with a gloss of emotion. He’s a doctor; he knows the outlook. It’s not bright. But he has hope. He can’t- not after- not when-

“Daddy!” Rosie cries, reaching out for him, her eyes widening with empathetic tears. The tears instantly turn to sobs, and Sherlock turns her small body into his chest, rubbing her back and stroking her untamed curls.

“Shh, Watson. Daddy’s okay. Daddy’s okay,” Sherlock soothes, rocking her. Watching the display soothes John a bit, too. “Your daughter is remarkably perceptive of human emotion,” Sherlock says once Rosie has quieted, only moments later.

John smiles, swallowing the ball of worry in his throat. “Watson family trait, is it?”

“Is it?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. _Git._

John shakes his head and snaps into doctor mode, posture straightening and face hardening. “I’ve got to get to the A&E to get more information, see how she’s doing.” _And rip her bloody head off if she’d been drinking._ He glances at his own drink mocking him only a few steps away. “Can you take Rosie for me?”

“Let me,” Molly steps in before Sherlock can respond. Rosie’s cries had attracted more attention from the party guests than he’d thought. Sherlock hands the now-sleepy toddler over to Molly, who kisses her on the forehead. “It’s been too long, I’ve been dying to spend some quality time with this one. Sherlock, why don’t you go with John? The rest of us can pick up a bit.” She looks expectantly at Sherlock. John sees something unspoken pass between the two of them, and Sherlock nods. “I know where all her supplies are. Rosie and I will be here when you get back, won’t we?” Molly smiles, talking more to Rosie than John. She taps Rosie’s nose and the toddler squeals in tinkly laughter.

John is secretly thrilled- Sherlock is great company in the A&E lobby. And he really doesn’t want to do this alone. “You’re sure, Molly? I owe you.”

Sherlock huffs. “Of course she’s sure, John. Let’s go.” Sherlock pulls on the sleeve of John’s blue blazer as he takes his coat off the rack. John follows on autopilot, swept up in the day’s chaotic turn of events. At the door, Sherlock turns and yells to the small group in the sitting room, “Thanks for coming everyone, now please leave!”

They’re out the door before anyone can respond.

John and Sherlock take a cab to King’s College Hospital. John stares out the window in silence for most of the ride. Sherlock pretends he’s looking out the window, but actually glances over to John every few minutes. John pretends not to notice the first five times.

On the sixth, however, John can’t resist. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Sherlock. I’m fine, you know.”

Sherlock huffs. “Your only sibling _is_ in critical condition. It’s only natural to be concerned.”

John rubs his brow. He doesn’t want to face this. Lately he’s felt like a Jenga set, with critical pieces slowly being taken out, leaving him increasingly unstable. One more piece and he’s going to topple. His life was only just starting to feel normal again, as if the pieces were gradually being returned to their slots. John took an online anger management class and started therapy again, and even Sherlock is seeing a therapist specializing in drug addiction. He has a nice place, with Rosie. He and Sherlock are finally on solid ground. He thought he could keep going like this without shaking the blocks. Childish. God, he could use a drink.

“I do appreciate it, you know. Your, concern.” John reaches across the seat to rest his hand on top of Sherlock’s, softly rubbing his thumb across the smooth skin over Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock looks down at John’s sturdy, tanned hand over his and blinks, but doesn’t make an attempt to move it. John looks back out the window, and doesn’t let go. This is how they are, now.

When they arrive at the hospital, John inquires about Harry. The receptionist _(_ “Desperately hungover recent university graduate,” according to Sherlock _)_ takes their IDs and simply instructs them to sit and wait.

The A&E waiting area is crowded with patients. John deduces what they’re in for, and Sherlock deduces how the injury was sustained or where the virus was caught.

“Flu,” John whispers, pointing to a man in his 30s wearing a striped jumper and clutching a pack of tissues for dear life.

“Child’s play,” Sherlock scoffs, and John raises an eyebrow. “Literally, John. He’s a nursery teacher. Picked it up from one of the walking petri dishes we call toddlers.” John chuckles, and for a moment, he forgets he’s not supposed to be enjoying this.

They only finish three more patients (broken arm, sprained ankle, chicken pox) before John spots an oddly familiar woman with a nose ring, dark, intense eyes, and a head of black, springy curls across the room. “Clara!” John nearly shouts in his excitement to see an old friend he hadn’t realized he missed until this moment.

Clara perks up at the sound of John’s voice and gives him a small wave. She makes her way to a chair across from where John and Sherlock are sitting and crosses her arms. She’s wearing leggings, a cozy mustard jumper, and large, bold earrings covered in colorful geometric shapes. She looks more casual than John’s ever seen her. When he knew her well, Clara always sported clean, expensive trouser suits and simple jewelry. John likes this new look on her; she exudes the same, business-like confidence, but it’s relaxed, effortless, even. She and John are the same age, but Clara looks much younger. It makes John self-conscious. “I should’ve known the wanker having the time of his life in the A&E was you, Johnny.” She smiles. “It’s good to see you. Shite circumstances, though,” she gestures to the bright red Emergency Department sign hanging above them.

It sobers him. “God, yeah.” John doesn’t quite know what to say. He hasn’t seen this woman in years. He thought Clara had been cut completely out of the picture long ago. This casual version of the high-strung woman he used to know is practically a stranger. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but...why are you here?”

“Emergency contact,” Sherlock answers. He’s eyeing Clara up and down, not even bothering to hide his _damn_ deduction eyes. John fidgets in his seat, bracing himself for Sherlock to say something uncomfortably personal. “Harry had both you and Clara listed. Hasn’t updated them in years. Interesting, though, that you still came.”

John relaxes and rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Clara, this is my, uh, friend-”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock reaches his arm across the aisle to shake Clara’s hand. He’s being uncharacteristically polite. It makes him wonder what Sherlock knows about Clara that he doesn’t.

She tips her head curiously. “Nice to meet you, Sherlock. Although, I have to be honest, I already know who you are. I _have_ actually read a few of John’s blog posts. Some of the older ones.” John puffs up at that. Sherlock smirks.

“You were married to a Watson. You know they tend to romanticize things a bit,” Sherlock shoots a challenging look at John, who only runs his tongue over his bottom lip in response.

Clara scoffs. “Don’t think Harry’s that type of person. I’m not sure how much the Watson siblings actually have in common.” She fidgets with the ends of her scarf. Has Sherlock touched a nerve, there?

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Oh, I think you’d be surprised.” John wants to push back on Sherlock on that one, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“Watson?” a doctor calls out to the waiting room, holding a clipboard. John, Clara, and Sherlock perk up. John stiffens, having momentarily forgotten the rather morbid reason why the three of them are gathered in the A&E lobby.

He stands and strides over to the doctor, whose face betrays nothing (as far as John can tell; Sherlock would probably disagree). “Hi, yeah, I’m John, Harry Watson’s brother. How is she?”

“Hi, John,” the doctor greets, and pulls him aside to a more private corner. She has a naturally kind face, and in this situation, John finds it hateful. “I was told you spoke with Nurse Haverhill on the phone?” John nods. “So you’re aware Harriet experienced severe trauma to the head, as well as incurred broken ribs and a punctured lung in a car accident?”

It’s harder this time, but John nods again.

Her voice softens. “Are you also aware that her blood alcohol content was alarmingly high?”

_No. No. NO._ He had suspicions, but he never dreamt- on her way to Rosie’s birthday party- she said she was getting better!

“God, no,” he can barely get the words out. He’s livid. He flexes his fingers, fighting the urge to punch something. It’s this moment that Sherlock appears and digs his hand into John’s shoulder, equal parts warning and comfort.

“ _Doctor_ Watson would like to know her prognosis, Doctor,” Sherlock cuts in, not-so-subtly. John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

She glances between them, recognition dancing in her eyes before her features sink in sympathy. “John, I’m so sorry. She’s dead.”

John feels the words rather than hears them. The last Jenga block is pulled, and he falls with a clatter.

The next few days pass without John experiencing them. The first day, he sleeps. The next, he drinks. And drinks. John protests, but Sherlock stays on the couch. On the third night, Sherlock dumps John’s liquor. John weakly tries to fight him off, but Sherlock stays anyway. Rosie stays with Mrs. Hudson. Clara deals with Harry’s arrangements.

On the fourth day, John is hungover and bone-tired. He wakes just past noon to Sherlock in the sitting room typing furiously on a laptop- whether it’s his or Sherlock’s, John can’t tell. He doesn’t care. Sherlock stops briefly to scan John’s body, and returns to typing. John rubs his face, embarrassed, feeling the rough stubble on his chin. He knows he’s been an absolute arsehole. John stops into the kitchen to make coffee, and sees a pile of glass in the bin that triggers a vague flashback to last night: there’s shouting, glass breaking, and Sherlock stripping him and putting him into bed. John’s cheeks burn.

He needs to get himself together. Harry’s dead. He has responsibilities.

Harry’s dead.

_It could’ve been me it could’ve been me it could’ve been me it could’ve_

“Stop wallowing, John. I can hear it from here,” Sherlock calls absently from the sitting room.

John’s coffee poured, he walks in and sinks next to Sherlock on the couch. After four days of Sherlock sleeping there, it smells like him: tobacco, tea, and lavender shampoo. The familiarity of the scent soothes his throbbing headache. Well, that and the paracetamol Sherlock hands him wordlessly.

“Ta,” John says, taking it with coffee.

“Services start on Friday,” Sherlock offers plainly, not looking away from the laptop screen. “Wake on Friday, funeral service Saturday.”

John grunts. “Today’s...Thursday?”

“Wednesday, John.”

“Right, yeah.” They sit in uncomfortable silence as John continues to sip his coffee. His entire body groans with every movement.

“I’ve got to stop this,” he whispers.

“Mm.” Sherlock keeps typing.

“I mean it, Sherlock. I’m a right mess.”

Sherlock stops ( _finally_ ) to look at him. “Yes, John, you are. How breathtakingly observant of you,” Sherlock bites, running a hand through his already unruly curls. The vitriol in his voice is unmistakable. With Sherlock so close, John can see that he looks undone, too. His hair is wild, his eyes are red-rimmed, his dressing robe is stained, and his cheeks look hollow.

John did this to him. He’s done it before, too. God, he doesn’t want to do it again.

“I’m going to give up drinking,” John declares. “For Harry. And for you. For Rosie. And for me.” He can’t let his sister’s death go unlearned from. Harry died because she refused to confront her problem. John won’t.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, reading the truth in the declaration on John’s face. “Easier said than done, John.”

“I know, but I’m going to try,” John breathes, the sadness he’s suppressed for the last few days finally coming to a head. “I have to try, for Harry.”

Sherlock stretches his lanky limbs across the sofa, laying his head in John’s lap. John lazily runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Thank God, because I need to get some sleep without worrying you’re going to drink yourself into oblivion. Do you mind?” He pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and covers himself with it, settling in.

Watching Sherlock succumb to sleep with his own fingers smoothing his curls, John decides, no, he truly doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all.

Rosie comes back to John’s flat for the next couple of days, and having to take care of another human being is a nice distraction from the constant thread of bad thoughts running through his head and the constant itching for a drink. He’s nauseous and moody and a downright nightmare to deal with, but Sherlock insists on staying. John can’t blame him- he doesn’t totally trust himself to “keep off the sweeties,” as he himself had said to Sherlock a few months earlier.

Every minute it feels impossible, but he does.

Sherlock leaves on Thursday afternoon. He gives John a brief hug, and John doesn’t want to let him go. He hasn’t spent a night alone with Rosie since Harry died, and the thought terrifies him.

After putting on his coat, Sherlock firmly grabs both of John’s shoulders and scans his face. Sherlock must not find anything alarming, because he says with confidence, “You’ll be fine. See you tomorrow, John.”

On Friday morning, John is grateful to wake up on time (honestly, he’s grateful to wake up at all). He’s been having trouble sleeping without a drink, so Sherlock suggested Rosie sleep with him last night. It helped. It wasn’t the most restful night of sleep, but he got a few hours in. He considers it progress.

He hurriedly gets ready, quickly shaving, pulling on the same suit he wore for Rosie’s christening with a black tie, putting Rosie in a cute purple dress and a nappy, and gathering their things. She’s being surprisingly cooperative. John can only hope the rest of the day goes the same way.

He makes it to Baker Street with ten minutes to spare. He and Rosie are to stay at 221B for the next two nights- they can actually walk to the service venue from there. John’s not sure if that was entirely unintentional.

Mrs. Hudson greets them both with kisses. “Oh, John. It’s good to see you up and about. I’ve been so worried.” She takes Rosie into her arms, who coos “Huddy!” in delight. “Poor thing, she’s had so much loss in her life already. She’s a strong little thing, though, just like her Daddies.”

“Daddies?” John asks, knitting his eyebrows together. The word creates a pool of warmth in him. He wonders if Sherlock has ever thought of himself that way- if he’d ever _want_ to think of himself that way. Sherlock, a father to his child- it’s a ludicrous fantasy he best not dwell on. He cocks his head and takes a step towards Mrs. Hudson. “Surely, you don’t mean-”

“Ready?” Sherlock bounds down the stairs, cutting him off, and John can’t help but stare at the sharp, clean man in front of him. It may just be the contrast of the last few days of disheveled lying about in his dressing gown, but Sherlock looks...spectacular. He’s wearing some expensive, well-tailored black suit, looking like he just stepped off the cover of some snobbish magazine. He hardly has the right to look this good at his sister’s _wake_ , for God’s sake.

“Oh, Sherlock, you look quite fit!” Mrs. Hudson cheers as she situates Rosie in the pram with a cuddly toy. She points excitedly at Sherlock and shouts “Bwack!”

John smiles. He’s been practicing colors with her.

“Very good, Watson. Your Daddy, Mrs. Hudson, and I _are_ all in black today,” Sherlock leans over to smooth her curls.

“I wuv you,” Rosie says fondly, waving her hedgehog cuddly toy at Sherlock, who freezes.

John’s heart bursts. It’s the first time Rosie has ever said those words. They were so effortless. So simple and true. John can tell Sherlock is moved by it, too. He blinks a few times, looks back at John, smiling earnestly, and turns back to Rosie.

“I love you, too, Watson,” he softly kisses her forehead.

John bites back tears. He can’t get emotional before this whole memorial process even starts. “Come on, then, lovebirds, let’s go. Harry’s waiting.”

The next two days are exhausting. John coasts through the handshakes, the condolences, and the flowers mindlessly. He doesn’t take much of it in- it’s too hard to think. He’s already dealing with constant nausea from not drinking, and on top of mindless chatter, he constantly feels like he’s going to lash out. He sees people he hasn’t seen in years, and many he doesn’t know at all- Harry’s coworkers, her AA sponsor, her old school friends, a few odd cousins. He’s beyond grateful for Clara’s attendance. She does most of the grunt work of the greeting; she knows far more people than John does at both the wake and the funeral. Even though she and Harry were divorced, people recognize her as the chief mourner. She looks it, too. John wonders if she regrets the divorce. Maybe the pair of them had even discussed getting back together. He wonders if Clara still loved her.

John realizes he knew startlingly little about Harry’s personal life. She was gregarious, and wild, and constantly bugging John about his own affairs, but John knew she used that as a shield. She never opened up to him, and John still doesn’t know how or why her and Clara split up.

He should’ve tried to help.

It was probably the drinking.

At any rate, he’s happy Clara is the one being coddled. He doesn’t want that kind of attention. Not for a third funeral.

When it comes time for eulogies, Clara’s is gutting. She tells a story about a time in university when Harry dragged her to a funeral for a stranger just to get some good food, then got on the microphone at the reception to tell a completely made-up story about the deceased. “She had everyone in that room hysterically laughing, then tearing up. She always knew how to work a room, find an angle. She made it so easy to fall in love with her,” she stops and composes herself. “It was certainly easy for me.”

John now has no doubts that Clara still loved her, in the end.

“And if any of you are here just for the free food, well, honestly, I can’t blame you. Harry would probably want you here the most.”

At that, John laughs, a full, belly-laugh, and it feels so good. That story was Harry all over. She was such a damn loveable troublemaker. Beside him, Sherlock smiles and nudges John with his shoulder. “You’re next, John.”

He had written a short speech for this moment, but now, in front of a full church of Harry’s eccentric friends and acquaintances, it feels trite and rehearsed. He folds the paper with his prepared words, puts it back in his pocket, and decides to just say what he means in the moment, for once. For Harry.

He clears his throat. “Growing up as Harry Watson’s little brother, I learned three things at a young age: first, how to throw a punch, second, that everything dangerous is fun, and third, that Harry is always right. The first one is self-explanatory. Harry is- was- probably one of the most aggravating people on the planet. She teased and teased and pushed and pushed in exactly the right ways. She knew how to make anyone snap. As her younger brother, I was a target all too often.”

There are some laughs from the congregation. He glances at Sherlock, who’s trying and failing to hold back a smirk.

“As much as she could be an instigator, though, she was also a fierce protector. As some of you may know, our dad could be a rather cruel bloke. He constantly ragged on her for her instinct for rebellion, for her hair, her shoes, her hobbies, for being gay.” John closes his eyes, somewhat regretting this off-the-cuff thing. He only continues because he knows Harry would want this. _“No better place to piss on Dad than at my funeral!”_ he imagines her cheering.

“She always took the fall for me. I think she knew that for me to survive in that house, I had to be the golden boy. Dad had already written her off. I regret that I’ll never be able to properly thank her for everything she did to protect me from him.” John catches a glimpse of Clara crying unabashedly in the front row, and he has to swallow before going on.

“The second thing I learned from Harry is my favorite: Danger is fun. I’m not sure how many of you are followers of my blog, but if you are, you know that I’ve spent most of my life chasing adrenaline highs, joining the army, catching criminals with Sherlock Holmes. I think I owe that habit to Harry, and I’m not sure if I should adore her or resent her for it.”

In the second row, Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. A genuine, wide, frankly besotted smile that makes John want to taste it.

“Harry loved taking risks, and she loved taking me along. Once, she planned an elaborate scheme to set off a stink bomb in school, and we had lessons cancelled for three days. She always knew how to get what she wanted in the craziest way possible. She was a risk-taking mastermind...until the end.” The room turns somber.

“That brings me to my last point, which is that Harry was always right. She told me once that her drinking would kill her one day, and it _did_.” His voice breaks, and Sherlock’s smile is gone- he’s looking at John like a fragile tea set. John hates it. He’s got to say something, anything, that makes Sherlock stop looking at him like that. He knows what he has to say, for Harry. For himself.

He can’t stop the possibly catastrophic, emotional train of thought threatening to burst out of him now. “Harry Watson was blunt, perceptive, and intolerant of liars, which is why I have to tell her now that she was always right about me.” He draws in a breath, revelling in the riskiness of what he’s about to say, masochistically savoring the way his emotions have been pushed so far past the limit this week that he just doesn’t care anymore. “And she was right about everything when it came to me and Sherlock.”

He can see people looking around helplessly, wondering how this speech went off the rails so suddenly, some confused, some excited. Mrs. Hudson looks vindicated. Mostly, he sees Sherlock, eyes wide, mouth open. John can’t tell if it’s terror or pure surprise, or a little of both. John relishes in it.

“Sherlock, I know this is bloody awful timing, at my sister’s funeral. But she deserves to know. She knew, all the time, Sherlock. She knew me. Harry understood me better than she had a right to. Sherlock, I love you. I love you so much.” His voice catches and it turns into a sob, and somehow Sherlock is there, dragging him off the podium and out of the church. John lets him. He is completely numb.

Outside, Sherlock presses John into the white stone wall and throws a cup of cold water on his face. The cold blast catapults John into the current moment. “Jesus, what was that for?” John spits, wiping his face with his suit sleeve. He doesn’t have anything left in him to give. If Sherlock wants to scream at him, or punch him, or tell him he never wants to see him again, or throw more water on his face, John doesn’t care. He wants it. He’s itching for a reaction.

Sherlock speaks softly, but deliberately. His face is calm, and it tells John nothing. “In a minute, you’re going to go in there, get Watson and the pram, and come back out. Then, we’re going to walk back to Baker Street and sort this out.”

John swallows. “I can’t just _leave_ my sister’s funeral.”

Sherlock growls, dropping the blank facade. “You can’t say what you said at your sister’s funeral, either!” He runs a hand through his hair and turns away from John. Passersby are staring, and the wet patch on John’s collar is widening, cold water mixing with sweat. When Sherlock turns back, his eyes are dark, and his tone is unforgiving. He grabs John by the lapels. “Do it now, John.”

John pushes Sherlock off of him and wordlessly walks into the church and down to the second row, where Mrs. Hudson is sitting with Rosie and the pram. John tries not to make a fuss with Rosie as he straps her in, unsuccessfully. After his outburst just minutes earlier, the funeral attendees seem to find John a more interesting spectacle than the pastor. When Rosie starts chanting “Bwack bwack bwack”, she gives them all the more excuse to stare. Mrs. Hudson shoots them all dirty looks. Clara even mouths across the aisle to him, “You okay?”

John doesn’t know how to begin answering that.

The walk to Baker Street is tense. John’s keyed up. His body feels like he’s just finished a case, his whole being a molotov cocktail of emotion. He’s volatile, and he knows it. He wants to punch Harry. He wants to hug Clara. He wants to drown himself in whiskey. He wants to kiss Sherlock. _God,_ he wants to kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock is silent now, pushing the pram and looking pointedly forward. There’s a firmness in his posture that suggests he’s bottling his anger, saving it for behind closed doors of 221B. He imagines Sherlock completely undone, angry and human.

The idea both terrifies and excites him.

A few blocks later they arrive at Baker Street. Rosie is sound asleep, clutching her hedgehog. She looks peaceful, which is so far beyond John’s current state of being that he can’t comprehend it.

“Wait here,” Sherlock whispers so as not to wake her. John slumps against the front door as Sherlock takes Rosie inside to put her down. He watches people walk by. There’s a couple, hand-in-hand, a businesslike man holding a briefcase, a mother with a young teen who’s texting. John’s jealous of them. They probably don’t have dead sisters, dead ex-wives, and best friends who can’t- won’t- don’t love them back, not in the way they need.

“Fuck off!” he yells across the street to the couple. They give him a dirty look and start walking faster down the pavement.

By the time they’re out of sight, Sherlock appears and wrangles John inside by the waist. “Come on, John,” he huffs. “Quiet, Watson’s asleep upstairs.” His breath is hot on John’s neck. He sounds exhausted.

John bounds up the stairs, eager for this fight. “Well?” He turns to Sherlock, eyes wide. “What’d you think of my speech?”

Sherlock bites his lip like he’s trying hard not to say something. He strides confidently into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. “I’m making tea. Then I’m sending you to bed.” His voice is steady. John hates it.

John follows him into the kitchen. It smells like tea and chemicals, and John wishes all his clothes would smell like this again. When Sherlock turns around to face him, John puts his arms on either side of him, effectively pinning Sherlock to the counter. Sherlock’s leg is slotted between John’s own. John feels himself getting hard. He wonders if Sherlock can feel it. “Oh, yeah?”

Sherlock’s face betrays nothing, but his eyes darken. Their chests are touching, and John can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat quicken through his posh black button-up.

“Yes, John. You need to sleep. You’re delirious, grieving, and going through withdrawal.” He attempts to move John’s arm, but it stays firm.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not delirious.”

“Hmm.”

John looks up at Sherlock with the most sincere expression he can muster. “I meant it, you know. What I said, about Harry being right. I love you.” The words feel so _right_ coming out of his mouth, but so wrong in this context. They’re a plea, not the gentle confession John had been envisioning for months.

Sherlock takes advantage of John’s moment of vulnerability and manages to extricate himself. “John, please don’t- don’t do this now. Your judgment is severely compromised, clearly.”

The kettle boils. Sherlock busies himself with making the tea. John leans against the counter, watching Sherlock’s quick, practiced process. John stares at Sherlock’s hands as he stirs sugar into his own cup. His fingers are long and delicate, the ones on his left hand with slight, permanent indents from the violin. John aches to feel them on his body, in his mouth.

John doesn’t want a fight, anymore. His scattered energy has channeled into pure arousal. When Sherlock hands John the cup, perfectly steeped and milky, John’s fingers brush over his, imagining how they might feel brushing over the skin on his chest, on his neck, on his thigh. John sips. It’s hot, and it burns his throat going down. It hurts in a familiar way. John runs his tongue over his bottom lip and stares, open and wanting, at Sherlock's mouth. It parts. John scans his eyes down Sherlock’s body to catch the hint of a growing bulge in his trousers. John smiles victoriously. Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, and the atmosphere shifts. Sherlock wants this, too.

“Ta,” John whispers, his voice low and breathy. Sherlock swallows.

John sets the cup beside him on the counter, not breaking eye contact. There’s an intensity between them that’s raw, and deliciously anticipatory. John places his hands on Sherlock’s hips and squeezes.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, closing his eyes. It’s chastising, and encouraging, and reverential all at once. John pulls his hips so they’re flush with his own. And _oh,_ the pressure of Sherlock’s arousal against his own is electrifying. Sherlock braces himself on the counter, bringing their chests together. John nestles his nose in Sherlock’s neck, just breathing in the scent of him. He smells like 221B, but concentrated with an added mix of soap and sweat and cigarettes. It’s heady. John rolls his hips against Sherlock’s, who groans. _Christ_ , he wants to hear that again. He rolls his hips once, twice more, and Sherlock effectively collapses into him. John can feel him growing harder.

John slides his hand up Sherlock’s chest to his neck to his cheek, cataloguing every bump and smooth line on Sherlock’s body he’s never been able to touch, linger on before, and possibly won’t again.

“You smell so good, Sherlock. You feel so _fucking_ good,” John rolls his hips again.

Finally, it’s Sherlock who crashes their lips together.

It’s rough, and messy, and heated. It’s wet tongues, teeth pulling at lips, frantic hands in hair, and desperate moans. John needs this release, fast and hard. Sherlock must know what John needs- he always knows. And he always gives. And maybe he’ll only do this for him once, under these strange circumstances, so John has to make it count.

He pulls on Sherlock’s curls, exposing his neck. He uses the momentum to flip them around so that Sherlock is backed up against the kitchen counter. John grinds into him, licking at his neck.

“ _Yes_ , John,” Sherlock pants, holding onto John by his hair.

“Yeah?” John smiles against Sherlock’s neck. He moves his hand down Sherlock’s body, reaching for his belt.

He moves his mouth to Sherlock’s ear and pulls with his teeth. He needs more _,_ and he wants it quickly. “Want to touch you,” he whispers.

Sherlock nods and lets out a moan that makes John shiver. John undoes the belt and zip and slips his hand inside Sherlock’s trousers to palm his erection over his pants. It gives John a rush, confirming Sherlock is as interested in the proceedings as he is.

Sherlock breathes heavily into John’s neck and shifts his hands from John’s hair to his trousers, rubbing at his bulge. The touch is _fuck,_ good, but not enough. He takes his hand out from Sherlock’s trousers and hurriedly undoes his own belt and zip just enough to pull out his cock, so Sherlock can touch it, unrestrained. He doesn’t hesitate. Sherlock’s fingers wrap tightly around the base of John’s cock and stroke, and _oh._ John has imagined this hundreds of times, but the thrill of Sherlock’s hand on him like this is all-consuming.

John kisses Sherlock again, open-mouthed. He reaches inside Sherlock’s pants, pulls out Sherlock’s gorgeous cock and begins stroking in earnest, the pre-cum leaking from the head just enough to lubricate. They’re going to feel the chafe in a few hours, but at the moment, John doesn’t care. Fuck, he doesn’t care one bit; he’s getting off with Sherlock! God, he’s waited so long for this, and it’s so wrong, and so right, and so, _oh_ , intense, and he needs more. He takes Sherlock’s hand into his own and readjusts them so their cocks are touching, leaking onto each other, rubbing against one another. John takes them both in his hand and squeezes.

“It’s so good John, oh god, you’re so good,” Sherlock pants into his mouth.

John strokes, hard and fast, exactly how he needs this. John’s panting into Sherlock’s neck. “Harder, John.” John growls, biting and sucking at the skin there. He has an instinctual urge to mark him. “ _Oh_ , like that, _yes_ , I’m-”

Sherlock comes, hot streaks pulsing onto John’s own cock. But it’s Sherlock’s face, totally open and lost in pleasure, that sends John over the edge. His orgasm is a needed, powerful release. It shoots onto Sherlock’s stomach and his smart black shirt.

John collapses, completely spent, into Sherlock’s chest, and sobs.

John wakes at an unknown hour feeling groggy and hungover, despite his lack of a drink for the last few days. His head throbs, and his body aches. He feels soft, pillowy sheets on the exposed skin on his chest, arms and legs that feel unfamiliar, but smell achingly so known. When he finally opens his eyes, he realizes he’s in Sherlock’s bed. There’s a baby monitor on the nightstand, along with a bottle of paracetamol and a glass of water. The room is dark and quiet, but through the window, soft yellow light from the streetlamp streaks the curtains.

John groans, and takes the paracetamol. He closes his eyes and tries to listen for Sherlock puttering in the kitchen, or playing violin. It’s eerily silent.

There’s a pit in his stomach as he remembers the events of yesterday afternoon (or a few hours ago? He can’t tell). This is all his fault. God, he’s an idiot. How the hell did he decide his sister’s eulogy was the time to confess his feelings in a public diary entry? And Sherlock had been angry about it, surely. Hadn’t he? John didn’t actually expect anything to come from it- certainly not physical confirmation that Sherlock wanted him, too. Certainly not hurried handjobs in 221B resulting in a spectacular release. How had things escalated so quickly?

And then, the worst part was his full-on breakdown afterwards. He lost all control and felt the impact of everything from the last week, the last few months, the last few years manifest itself in chest-heaving sobs. He’s never cried so much in his bloody life as he did just yesterday. He vaguely remembers Sherlock stripping him completely naked, giving him a pair of boxers, and putting him to bed. He moves the sheet to look down, and confirms this.

John remembers asking Sherlock to stay. But he’s not here, now.

He desperately hopes he hasn’t ruined everything. They’d come so far before John had to go and shout his love from a podium and basically try to fuck Sherlock like a horny teenager (he certainly came like one).

His stomach grumbles, and he realizes he’s starving. He hasn’t eaten much in the last few days, having completely lost his appetite in his grief. He doesn’t want to face Sherlock, yet, but he needs to eat. In the end, his stomach wins out. He decides he’ll have to face Sherlock eventually, and better to do it now, when Rosie’s asleep, than to do it in the morning when that could be bloody awkward.

His suit is folded neatly on the chair next to Sherlock’s dresser, but he doesn’t bother with it. He opens Sherlock’s bedroom door, bracing himself for a sulking Sherlock, but the flat is empty.

He strides into the kitchen to find his phone on the counter, next to his barely touched cup of tea. He opens it to check the time, just after midnight, but he’s got tons of messages and missed calls, absolutely none of which he wants to deal with right now.

Clara 5:21pm

Where’d you go?

Clara 5:22pm

I liked your speech.

Clara 5:30pm

The reception’s about to start. I’d really like you to be there.

Clara 5:33pm

Missed Call (2)

Mrs. Hudson 5:40pm

Missed Call (3)

Mycroft Holmes 6:02pm

Dr. Watson, my sympathies. I heard you gave quite a compelling speech.

Mrs. Hudson 7:15pm

Hope you’re alright, dear. I’ll stop at the shops on the way home.

Twitter (57 notifications) 7:45pm

@DailyMailUK mentioned you

Greg Lestrade 7:50pm

You ok, mate? Saw the video on Twitter. About time, really. Bloody awful circumstances, though. Sorry to hear about your sister.

Clara 7:52pm

Don’t worry, I’m going to kill whoever recorded that.

Clara 7:53pm

I’m really sorry, Johnny.

Maybe: Anita Stimson 8:25pm

Hello, Dr. Watson. This is Anita Stimson, celebrity news correspondent at the Daily Mail. I’m reaching out to see if you’d be interested in an interview regarding recent events...

There’s more, but John has to stop scrolling. His heart is beating out of his chest. Everyone knows. _Fuck_ , everyone knows. And the flat is empty. Where the _hell_ is Sherlock?

His phone vibrates.

Sherlock 12:10am

Upstairs.

Oh, god. This is it, then. He puts his phone back on the counter, wishing he could just toss it in the bin.

There’s another vibration.

Sherlock 12:10am

Watson’s sleeping. Stay there. I’ll come to you.

All John finds in the pantry are some nuts, but he’s ravenous, and it’s good enough for him. He settles himself in his chair, popping cashew after cashew into his mouth. The stairs creak quietly as Sherlock makes his way down, and John suddenly feels exposed and chilly in only Sherlock’s boxer shorts. But within seconds, Sherlock comes up behind him and wordlessly runs his fingers through John’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and he forgets about his exposed chest and legs. John lets him, succumbing to the comfort of the touch, to the _relief_ of it, of Sherlock still wanting to touch him like this.

“Mmm. Feels good,” he praises. Sherlock continues his massage. “I was worried, when I woke up. That you weren’t there. That you were angry.”

Sherlock pauses his fingers briefly, then moves to John’s neck. It’s relaxing, but it also reminds John that Sherlock’s mouth was there only hours earlier. He wonders if Sherlock knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Watson woke up, for a bit. Mrs. Hudson made lentil soup. Watson had more of it on her face than in her stomach, but she seemed to like it, nonetheless. I read the insect book to her, the one Molly bought her, with the rhyming scavenger hunt. She seems to enjoy the desert landscape page most.” Sherlock moves his ministrations to John’s shoulders. “I put her to bed, and stayed to keep an eye on her and get some things done on my laptop. And...I didn’t want to disturb you.”

John can read the question in that. “You wouldn’t have been. Disturbing me, I mean.” He turns around, and Sherlock takes his hands off his shoulders. John misses the contact immediately.

“No?”

John takes Sherlock’s right hand in his left, placing it on top of the chair. Sherlock stares hard at their hands, concentrating. “I wanted you there.” John swallows. “I understand if you don’t...want that, though.” It hurts John to say. “I’m sorry. I was a complete dick at the funeral, and after.”

Sherlock takes his hand away and ties his dressing gown tighter around his waist. He bites his lip thoughtfully, and comes to lean against the armrest on John’s chair. John desperately wants to wrap his arm around those narrow hips, down his thighs, feel the silky material there, but...not yet. They need to talk, first.

Sherlock considers. He’s looking to the window, a glossy glow in his eyes from the streetlamp. He’s beautiful, and silent for a few, torturous minutes. John wonders if he’s in his mind palace.

“It will come as no shock to you that I was taken aback by your speech yesterday,” Sherlock starts, still staring out the window, avoiding eye contact.

John laughs. “God, me too. Don’t know what got into me.”

Sherlock shifts next to him. “That’s exactly the problem, John. I don’t trust that you were in the right frame of mind.” He turns to look at John, who sees worry, and fear, and sadness, and a sliver of hope in Sherlock’s features. “How can I know how much of it you meant? I’m inclined to think you were desperate for any sort of human contact: an emotional and physical release after a traumatic event. And if that is the case, I was happy to give that to you. It doesn’t need to happen again.” Sherlock gets up and goes to sit in his own chair, across from John, his hard exterior back on.

John resents this. He leans forward, aching to reach across the space between them. “Sherlock, I regret how it happened.” Even in the darkness of the room, Sherlock’s face hidden from the light of the window, John sees his entire being shrink. He rushes to clarify, “But I don’t regret _what_ happened. I mean, I’ve wanted that for Christ knows how long. I still stand by everything I said, even if I should have said it all in private. I hate to think I pressured you into anything- if you were only letting me- you know- because you think I _needed_ it, I- Jesus.” John drops his head into his hands. He’s gone and ruined the best damn thing in his life, all because he needed a bit of danger, a bit of drama.

“You meant everything you said.” Sherlock’s tone is impossible to read.

John squirms in his seat. “God, yeah. I’m an arse for waiting until yesterday to say all that, but yeah, I did.”

“So, in fact, you. Love me,” Sherlock states. The pure factuality of it pulls John from descending into a whirlpool of self-hatred. Warmth pools in his stomach.

“I really do, Sherlock. I love you.” He’s surprised at the ease at which the words come. Possibly Rosie’s having a good influence on him. “I’m so sorry it took me having a public platform at my sister’s funeral to finally say it, but I’ve known for months. Years, really, if I’m being honest.” He hopes Sherlock can read every detail in his face, because he means it, with every fiber of his being.

Sherlock rises again, coming to stand over John, the light from the window shrouding his dark figure in a soft glow. He extends a hand to John, who takes it, pulling Sherlock into his lap. The detective grunts in surprise.

Sherlock’s all awkward, long limbs, and it takes a minute for him to settle into a straddling position on John’s lap.

“I love you,” John says again, taking on a serious tone. He runs his hands along Sherlock’s sides and thighs. The silky fabric of Sherlock’s pajamas whistles against his fingers. Sherlock hums.

Sherlock leans forward and lightly sucks on John’s lower lip. This time, it’s tender, and so gentle; it’s starkly different from the open-mouthed panting from just a few hours earlier. John leans into the kiss, softly exploring the curve of Sherlock’s lips with his mouth and tongue. It’s divine.

Sherlock brings his hands to cup John’s face, and pulls back. He’s staring at John with such awe, such vulnerability. John’s breath hitches.

“I love you too, John,” Sherlock says. The words wrap around John like a wool blanket. He sinks into the softness of them, finally able to relax in the relief, the _comfort_ , of knowing that Sherlock loves him, too.

John kisses him, more fire behind it now. Sherlock responds enthusiastically, shifting his hips slightly for more contact. “I’ve wanted...this for so...long,” John mutters between kisses. When Sherlock only responds with a teasing roll of the hips, John pulls back, breathless. With only the boxers and Sherlock’s pajamas as a barrier between their cocks, it is extremely hard to concentrate.

“Seriously, Sherlock. I want you, however you’ll have me. I know I’ve been..” _awful, volatile, angry, depressed, dismissive,_ “hard to deal with, this past year. This past week. Yesterday. But I want to work for this. I want to be a man worthy of you,” John confesses. The expression on Sherlock’s face is so loving, so open, John doesn’t know if he’ll ever be worthy of Sherlock Holmes. But god, he wants to try to be, with everything he has.

Sherlock sees all of it. “I know, John. But you already are.” They kiss again, languid tongues and gentle, rhythmic rocking of hips.

“Let’s go to bed,” John suggests, his voice especially husky from the emotional toll of the last day.

Sherlock curls into his chest. “Mmm, yes. Do you mean _bed_ bed or just-”

John chuckles, and Sherlock’s head bobs up and down with the movement of his chest. “Whatever you want, love.”

John can feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin. “Oh, believe me, John, I want.” He emphasizes this with a well-aimed thrust. _Naughty boy._ “But I can tell you’re still exhausted, and so am I.”

He is, he realizes. The wave of fatigue hits him sharply, and he concedes. There’s still a looming cloud of grief over him that wears on his bones. “Fine. Just sleeping, then. It’s late.”

“Just for tonight.” Sherlock perks up, unceremoniously climbing off of John's lap and smoothing his pajamas as if they hadn’t just been snogging. “I do hope you intend to fuck me senseless once we’re rested. You have a magnificent cock, and I’ve already enumerated thirty six ways I’d like to use it.”

John’s arousal twitches. “Christ, Sherlock, keep talking like that and I won’t be able to sleep.”

Sherlock smirks and helps him up. John wraps his arms around Sherlock under his dressing gown and leans his head against the man’s chest. John feels his heart beat quicken. “You’re going to be the death of me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leans back to stare incredulously at John. “God, no. We’ve had quite enough of that.”

John wakes early the next morning with a mouthful of curls. He’s disoriented and groans internally at another headache pounding on his temples. He shifts, and unsticks himself from the person in front of him- _right_. Sherlock. He’s in Sherlock’s bed, half-nude, wrapped around his lean, warm body. Yesterday afternoon and last night are hazy in his memory. The only proof John has that he hadn’t dreamt it all is the sleepy detective in his arms.

It takes him a minute to acclimate, and when he does, he realizes his mobile is buzzing on the nightstand. Damn thing has probably been going off all night. He rubs his eyes, leans over, and sees it’s Mrs. Hudson. It’s 8am. Better get it, then.

“Hello?” he answers, voice horribly groggy. Sherlock stirs next to him.

Mrs. Hudson sounds relieved. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry to wake you, but you’ve got a visitor.” A visitor? The only visitor that came round at this hour was Mycroft, and he wouldn’t have Mrs. Hudson call up. “Clara’s here. Said she rang with no response. Just wanted to make sure you’re alright after- after-”

“Yes, alright, okay.” John runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. Sherlock is awake and sitting up, now, bare chest exposed and distracting. John’s eyes linger on the scar there, and he feels a pang of regret. Sherlock notices, of course, and quickly pulls the blanket in around him. “Give me a minute, I’ve got to get Rosie up. You can send Clara up, though. She can wait in the sitting room.” Sherlock leans back against the headboard, clearly disappointed with the turn of events. John kisses him on the forehead, and he seems slightly mollified. John hears steps in the sitting room and groans, wishing Clara had popped by just an hour or two later so he and Sherlock could have woken up properly.

Sherlock glances toward his bedroom door and sniffs. “She’s brought pastries. Chocolate croissants. She also drunkenly slept with one of Harry’s coworkers last night and regrets it. The one with the fringe and the clear glasses. They’ve liked Clara for ages.”

“Oh, you’re just showing off now. You haven’t even seen her yet.” John stretches and hangs his feet over the side of the bed, realizing the only clothing he has in this room is his suit. Sherlock jumps up off the bed and fetches a dressing gown from his dresser. John can’t stop staring at his arse in those tight black pants. Are they Calvin Klein?

“No, but I can smell the croissants.” He hands the dressing gown to John, who stands and wraps it around himself. “And they’re not the ones from the bakery by her flat, or one on the way here. Conclusion: she slept somewhere else.” Sherlock pulls the dressing gown he wore last night from the hook on the door, letting it hang, untied, giving John an unobstructed view of his fancy underwear and the bulge beneath. John licks his lips, reminded of those thirty-six ways Sherlock wants him.

“Okay, but how do you know she slept with this person? She could’ve just crashed there.”

“No. Cam, I believe their name was, flirted with Clara from the start of the service, bringing up a story about a work dinner they attended a few years ago. Clara was particularly susceptible to advances yesterday, having had such an emotional day. They’ve been waiting for their chance with her. It was the perfect storm.” John doesn’t miss the similarities to his own behavior.

“‘They’?”

“Not everyone is constricted by the gender binary, John.”

Clara’s voice echoes down the hallway into Sherlock’s room. “Oi, are you boys talking about me in there? I’m waiting! I’ve brought croissants!”

Sherlock’s look says _“I told you I was right,”_ and John gives him a playful slap on the bum before opening the door and walking out into the sunny flat.

She’s sitting in Sherlock’s chair, biting into a pastry, wearing the same black dress she wore to the funeral yesterday. She gives him a cheeky wave. “Nice of you to join me,” she greets, leaning over dramatically to get a glimpse into Sherlock’s room. “ _He_ in there?”

John narrows his eyes. “Nice of you to stop by on your walk of shame.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, like you can talk! This one looks thoroughly shagged,” she points to Sherlock, who chooses the exact wrong time to emerge from the bedroom, all wild hair, glowing skin, an incriminating mark on his neck from yesterday. John wants to kick Clara out and have Sherlock against the doorframe, but he _does_ owe her this.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d only look properly shagged if you had decided to intrude about an hour later,” Sherlock calls playfully from the kitchen. He puts the kettle on. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“Please,” Clara gives Sherlock an obvious once-over when he comes to sit in John’s chair a few moments later. “John’s quite a lucky man.”

John huffs. “I thought you were gay?” he asks incredulously, only half-joking.

Clara laughs. “You could call it that. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate an attractive human.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock reciprocates. “I didn’t say yesterday, but that dress looks exquisite on you. It’s no wonder you pulled.” Clara laughs, and a spark of jealousy rises in him, completely unjustified, but provoked, nonetheless.

“Do me a favor and get the high chair set up for Rosie. I’ve got to give her some breakfast or she’s going to throw a fit.”

John takes Rosie from her cot upstairs, changes her nappy, and dresses both of them. He prepares sliced bananas and small pieces of peanut butter toast for her breakfast. When she’s finished and fussing, John gives her the pop-up book she loves to play with, hoping it can buy them some uninterrupted time. He, Clara, and Sherlock sip on tea and munch on chocolate croissants.

Clara properly scolds John for dipping out of the reception, but assures she won’t hold a grudge. She asks him how he’s holding up, and it’s hard to say- he’s over the moon about finally moving things forward with Sherlock, but his sister’s still dead, and his fingers still itch for a drink every time he thinks about it. He could be better.

Clara asks about the press coverage.

“Have you seen the Twitter video yet? Some arse at the funeral must’ve sold it to Daily Mail.”

The pang of anxiety about all of his unread notifications hits him in the gut. “I didn’t see the video, but I know about it. A reporter called Stimson texted me for an interview. There might’ve been more, but I didn’t get that far.”

At this, Sherlock scoffs. “We don’t need to make any sort of statement about it. People have been speculating for years. Let them talk. John hardly said anything scandalous.”

“I wuv you!” Rosie calls from her chair, to no one in particular.

“Her timing is impeccable. She’s brilliant,” Clara gushes. John smiles, agreeing. “She looks like Harry, a bit.”

John studies Rosie’s gold curls, her bright, curious eyes, her Watson nose. Where he used to see Mary, he instead sees Harry. “She does.”

“You may have a rebel on your hands,” she teases. It’s meant to be playful, John knows, but there’s a sadness in it.

“With Sherlock in the family? There won’t be any room for that.” He looks lovingly at Sherlock, sitting in John’s own chair. Sherlock stares back at him, dumbfounded. Clara smiles privately to herself.

“You consider me part of your family?” Sherlock asks. It’s so hopeful, and vulnerable, John wants to kiss him. So he gets up from the couch, walks to Sherlock, leans over him, and does. Just a quick peck, but the rush of being able to do this now, anytime he likes, is heady.

Clara shifts in her seat. She clears her throat. “That’s actually...kind of what I came here to talk to you about.”

John and Sherlock reluctantly break from their private moment. Sherlock settles back into his cool persona. John settles on the armrest. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Mycroft Holmes got in touch with me this morning.”

Sherlock scowls, setting his tea down with a _clang_. “Agh, Mycroft! He can’t resist meddling. I’m sorry for the trauma meeting my brother may have caused you. What the _hell_ did he want?”

Clara chuckles. “He _was_ bloody frightening.”

Sherlock looks vindicated. John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, who leans into the touch casually.

Clara looks between the two of them and smiles. “You’re really fit together.”

John blushes, squeezing Sherlock against him. “Ta. I think so, too.”

Sherlock pretends he hates the attention, but John sees right through it. “What did Mycroft want?” Sherlock cuts in, desperate for the chance to change the subject and rail against his big brother.

“It’s a bit awkward, but he told me about Harry’s assets.” John perks up. He always knew Harry was financially comfortable- she was a lawyer, after all- but if Mycroft was getting involved, there has to be a feature of interest. It _would_ be like Harry to have a secret fortune stashed away, or an Italian villa being rented by mobsters.

“Harry left you her flat, John.”

The instant the words are said, John knows he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to live in Harry’s shadow. He could sell it, rent it-

“And I want it.” She thumbs at her necklace nervously. “It’s where Harry and I lived for years. I’ve been renting a dingy flat for years now, and Harry’s place is sentimental. I feel...safe there.” She pauses, evaluating John and Sherlock’s expressions. She anxiously chews on her plump bottom lip. When she finds nothing shocking, she continues, “John, I know it’s a lot to ask. But Mycroft said you might be amenable, and he offered to make it so-”

“It’s yours.” Indisputably, Clara is the right owner. He wants nothing to do with that flat. “Mycroft was right.”

Sherlock is affronted. “Please do me a favor, John, and never say those words in my presence again.” John musses his hair even further, calming him.

“Truly, Clara- I don’t want it. Please take it. Move in tonight, for all I care. At the very least, I owe you this.”

Clara waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t owe me anything, John. All I did was greet some old faces.”

Clara had always been humble, one of the things John liked about her, but this was a gross understatement. “No...you planned the services while I couldn’t be bothered to put down the whiskey. You’re basically a saint.”

Her face contorts in confusion, until she glances to Sherlock, and smiles. “I suppose I helped a bit, but...it wasn’t me who organized things, John.”

_Oh_ , of course. Sherlock’s staring off at the window guiltily.

“Sherlock,” John says, taking his arm off of Sherlock’s shoulders to cross it over the other across his chest. The man in question sighs.

“I was only pretending to be you, John. It was mindless. No need to thank me, or feel stupidly guilty.” His cheeks are burning. He’s been caught red-handed.

“Oh, I intend to thank you, Sherlock. Properly.” John smiles darkly. Sherlock swallows, a flash of excitement crossing his features.

Clara stands and smoothes her dress, the one she’s been wearing for far too long. “Well, that’s my cue to leave. John, if you change your mind about the flat-”

Inspiration strikes him. It’s new, and scary, but John suddenly knows exactly what he wants. “Sherlock, Rosie and I. Can we move in here, with you?”

Sherlock looks between John and Clara and hesitates. “John, I don’t know if-”

“Yes or no?” John’s eyes are wide and pleading, staring down at Sherlock from the armrest. Clara watches the proceedings with interest.

Sherlock visibly softens. “Of course. Always. Yes. _Yes.”_ He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and John supposes, it is.

John leans in to kiss him, harder this time, and Sherlock pulls him into his lap. John falls over him gracelessly, and the room descends into giggles- from John, Sherlock, Rosie, and Clara.

Clara stares at them from underneath the door frame longingly. “I’m happy for you two.”

John scrambles out of Sherlock’s lap and rushes to her. Her deep brown eyes are glistening with emotion: grief, jealousy, anger, sadness. He pulls her into a hug, and she slumps against him. Both of them know, now, what it’s like to lose Harry Watson. It’s heartbreaking, and tragic, and Not Okay, but they see each other’s pain. The solidarity of it is comforting, only just.

“She loved you so much, Clara. She did. She’s an idiot for ever leaving you,” he mutters into her hair. Sherlock looks at him from his chair wearing an expression of sad understanding. He’s thinking of when he left John for two years. John’s thinking of the time after Mary’s death.

Clara’s voice trembles. “She’s an idiot, full stop.”

John chuckles. “She was.” He locks eyes with Sherlock over Clara’s head. “She really was.”

After a bit of heated snogging, John takes Rosie back to the flat he’s renting (not “home” anymore, but was it ever?) to shower, give Rosie a bath, make lunch, and gather some clothes and more of Rosie’s things, toys, and books to take back to 221B.

It’s half-five by the time John stumbles into Baker Street, soaking from the London rain, lugging a large box of his and Rosie’s stuff at his side. Rosie’s also wet, and crying. Once he sets the box down unceremoniously, he tries cooing and rocking to quiet her, but no luck. Sherlock bounds down the stairs, fully dressed in grey trousers and a light blue top. It’s a relief not to see him in black.

Sherlock gives both Rosie and John a kiss on the cheek by way of greeting. Rosie calms slightly at the sight of him, her cries turning to soft hiccups.

Sherlock takes her out of John’s arms and soothes her. “Hello, Watson. It’s alright, you and Daddy are home now.”

John melts at the word _home_ (and has another visceral reaction to Sherlock calling him “Daddy”, but better save that Freudian analysis for later).

Upstairs, after they’ve hung their sopping coats, Sherlock has Chinese takeout waiting for them. He’s even chopped sweet and sour chicken into tiny pieces for Rosie, and set them on her high chair table with a beaker of juice.

“Thanks, for all this,” John says, gesturing to the display. Sherlock tucks Rosie into her chair and begins to feed her pieces of chicken as if they’re bees flying into her mouth, complete with sound effects. It’s adorable, almost unbearably so.

John, quite hungry himself, grabs a container of lo mein, an eggroll, and a pair of chopsticks and tucks in. The noodles are flavorful and familiar, the veggies are crunchy, and they warm John from the inside. Rosie is so enraptured with Sherlock’s buzzing, pieces of chicken are falling out of her mouth. When John laughs, it comes from deep in his belly. Sherlock’s scathing glance at John is completely put-upon.

“You’re so good with her,” John says when he recovers from his laughing fit.

Sherlock looks thoughtful. “So are you.”

“Well, alright, but...you’re so effortless about it. A natural. I feel like I’m constantly looking at her, having to tell myself I have to be in ‘Dad mode’. You can just be _you_ with her.”

“Sher!” Rosie bangs her beaker on the table impatiently and attempts to echo the bee buzzing, spitting to get Sherlock’s attention again.

“Look at her! She’s obsessed with you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I believe that’s simply a Watson family trait.”

John blushes, but looking at the mad, glorious, man who somehow loves him, he can’t deny it. “Fair enough.”

Sherlock smirks and goes back to his little performance for Rosie, sneaking appreciative glances at John in between bites.

They put Rosie to bed upstairs around seven, after another reading of the infamous insect book as the three of them gather on John’s bed. John holds Rosie on his lap, one arm around Sherlock as he reads. Rosie points to the bee and shouts, “Sher!”

Sherlock indulges her with a bit of buzzing, and John catches the end of it with a quick kiss. “Zzzzzzmm.”

Finally alone, John suggests they see if there’s anything good on telly. Sherlock quips that there’s hardly ever anything “good” on telly, but he agrees. John settles on a rerun of Planet Earth, and the soothing, gentle cadence of Sir David Attenborough instantly relaxes him. The intensity of the last week seeps out of him as he leans against Sherlock’s shoulder on the sofa. The stiffness in Sherlock’s body softens, too, as John reaches out to stroke Sherlock’s leg.

Just yesterday, John had been undone, needing Sherlock’s body against his hard and fast and in any way possible. But tonight, John wants to set things right. He wants to take Sherlock apart, inch by inch, achingly slow and soft and tender.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock lies back, stretching across the sofa and plopping his feet in John’s lap. His eyes never leave the screen. Attenborough’s rattling on about symbiotic relationships. John’s steady, practiced fingers get to work massaging Sherlock’s arches. He groans.

“Feels nice, then?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes playfully. “Obviously. It’s you, touching me.”

John chuckles, rewarding him with a particularly hard squeeze. “Yeah? Where else do you want me to touch you, then?” He smirks, not expecting Sherlock to answer. But the detective is as keen as ever.

Sherlock drops his voice so it’s low and teasing. “I want you to touch me everywhere, John. I want your tight, strong hands rubbing my chest, stroking my cock, gripping my hips, pulling them onto you as you fuck me.”

When Sherlock pops the “k” in _fuck_ , John feels himself getting hard in his trousers, under Sherlock’s feet. The mental image of pulling Sherlock onto his cock is dazzling. “God, yeah.”

“You enjoy talking about sex, during sex,” Sherlock deduces, quite correctly. “‘Dirty talk’,” he finger-quotes.

“Christ, don’t you?” John asks, rolling Sherlock’s trousers up so he can move his fingers to Sherlock’s calves. Irene’s (Moriarty’s?) “The Virgin” nickname flashes in his memory, but surely, things have changed since then?

“Yes. I enjoyed it yesterday.”

An image of Sherlock panting _“It’s so good, John, oh god, you’re so good”_ goes straight to his groin. “Oh yeah. Me, too. But before that…”

Sherlock huffs. “You mean to ask if I’ve had sex with other people, yes?”

John feels caught. He nods.

“Yes, I have. Once.” Sherlock stares pointedly at the telly.

A rush of jealousy runs through John, despite having no grounds to be jealous of Sherlock’s only lover when John’s most recent of whom _shot_ him. “When?” His voice has an edge, and Sherlock turns back to him, an eyebrow raised.

“When I was...away.”

Ah. “When you were dead.” He concentrates on keeping his movements steady on Sherlock’s legs, pushing into the muscly flesh with his thumbs. He thinks of Harry, faking it as some macabre joke. It pains him. “Why? Why just once?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, as if digging in his nightmares for a memory. They don’t talk about the time when he was dead. John assumes this is why- it couldn’t have been pleasant. Sherlock only ever refers to it as his “time away”.

“When I was away, I would let myself think of you only when I had a long period of waiting, or when my circumstances were horribly bleak.” Sherlock swallows, a morbid thought crossing his face. “During a waiting period, once, in Berlin, I went to a club with the sole purpose of finding a man who bore some resemblance to you to shag. Just to see what it would be like, you know, in case I never- in case I didn’t make it home. I found a suitable subject, and we had sex. That’s it.”

The story tears at John’s chest. Even then, Sherlock knew. They had wasted so much time. “Did you...enjoy it? Sex, I mean?”

“It was adequate for my purposes. But he was a bad knock-off replacement for what I really wanted.” Sherlock looks meaningfully at John, who reaches for his hand, intertwining their fingers on top of Sherlock’s stomach. “And John, I intend to shag you more than adequately tonight.”

John smiles wickedly. “Bedroom?”

Sherlock returns it. “Thought you’d never ask.”

In Sherlock’s room, they tumble onto the bed, John climbing on top of Sherlock and kissing him deeply. Sherlock stretches beneath him, bringing a slow easiness to the kiss. There’s no hurry tonight, so John takes the opportunity to lick his way around Sherlock’s mouth, rolling his hips slightly, teasingly against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock arches into the contact, spreading his legs in an invitation.

John notices the new items on the nightstand- lube and condoms. Sherlock must have picked them up today; the price stickers are still on.

John’s got to take his clothes off. He sits back on Sherlock’s hips, unbuttoning his top as he rocks his own hips down. Sherlock rubs circles on John’s trouser legs, then reaches for his belt buckle, undoing it casually. His hand comes down to palm John’s erection over his jeans. At the touch, John climbs off the side of the bed, discards his shirt, his shoes, his jeans, and his pants.

Sherlock hungrily rakes in his body with his eyes, lingering on his crotch. “John, I know I said it last night, but it deserves repeating- your cock is _magnificent_.”

John puffs up. “Your turn. Switch places.” John plops on the bed next to Sherlock, who climbs over him dramatically, stopping to run a hand over his chest and plant an open-mouthed kiss on John’s nipple.

Sherlock looms over him on the side of the bed and brings a finger to his top button. When he speaks, his voice is deep and breathless. “Touch yourself.” John doesn’t need to be told twice. He reaches for the lube and puts a small amount on his fingers. Jesus, even his own hand on his cock feels bloody fantastic right now. He pulls, slow and languid. Sherlock groans at the sight.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Sherlock instructs, and John smiles. Sherlock is too good at knowing what he’ll like, which is not the least bit surprising.

John looks up. As confident as Sherlock sounds, there’s a hint of nervousness in his posture John doesn’t miss. “Okay, love,” John starts. This seems to calm him. “Take off your top, one button at a time.” Sherlock looks down to start the task, but- “Keep your eyes fixed on me.” An echo of a memory rings with those words, but Sherlock looks at John, unflinching, now unbuttoning his top.

“Now take it off.” Sherlock does. The scar on his chest hits John with the same amount of force as before. That’s going to take getting used to. Sherlock moves to cover himself with his arms, but John stops him.

“No. I want to see it.” Sherlock hesitates, but he moves his arms to his sides. John stops stroking himself and sits up. “No one’s ever going to do that to you again, Sherlock. I won’t let them.”

Before Sherlock can respond, he gives the next command. “Undo your belt and remove your trousers.”

John lays against the down pillow behind him and takes his cock in hand. “You’re beautiful, Sherlock. I love watching you like this.”

Sherlock watches with interest and desire as John’s fist moves slowly up and down his length. “I enjoy watching you like this, too, John. So much new data to catalogue. It’s fantastic.”

“Now put your hand in your pants, and touch your cock for me. Yes, love, exactly like that. Tell me how it feels.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and groans. “S-so good. I’m hard for you, John.”

John moves his fist over himself faster, but not enough that he’d be able to come from this. “Take them off and get over here.”

Sherlock scrambles, nearly tripping over himself to get his pants off and into bed. When he does- _finally_ \- they have their hands all over each other. Sherlock slots their cocks together and thrusts, and it’s brilliant. They kiss, and kiss, and John eventually slows the pace so it’s sweet and attentive.

“I like it when you give me a striptease,” John mumbles against the side of Sherlock’s mouth.

“No,” Sherlock says, half-joking, “You like it when I obey your instructions.”

John hums. “Maybe a bit of that, too. I have another one for you: turn around.” Sherlock rushes to adjust himself so he’s on his stomach.

John reaches for the lube and coats his fingers generously. “Good boy.” He positions himself behind Sherlock on his side, most of his weight on his right elbow. He plants kisses along Sherlock’s spine and moves his fingers down to Sherlock’s cleft.

Sherlock slides his bum up to encourage the movement. “Can I touch you?” John asks with a kiss to the angle where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder.

Sherlock nods. “Please,” he breathes. It’s all the confirmation John needs to rub at Sherlock’s entrance and slide a finger inside, then two, stretching him until Sherlock gasps, squirming underneath him, pushing back against John’s fingers. “More, John.”

John brings his mouth to Sherlock’s ear, pulling on his lobe. “I want to be inside you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “ _Please_ , I want you inside me.”

John’s achingly hard. “Want to see you, though.” He turns Sherlock over so he’s laid out on his back, blissed out and prick standing rod straight.

John can’t help himself, he leans in, placing his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, and kisses him. “You’re gorgeous. I just- I didn’t ever think we would get here. It means a lot.” He looks away, getting emotional. Sherlock tenses.

“John, are you-“

“God, yeah. I just, I love you, Sherlock.” He kisses him again, and Sherlock runs his hands through John’s increasingly grey hair. All John’s life, sex had preempted love. But based on his limited experience so far, the love-then-sex thing is pretty unbeatable. He feels like he’s floating.

“I love you, too, John,” he smiles deviously, “But I’d also love for you to fuck me before I implode.”

John feels a surge of arousal from deep in his stomach, and that’s all it takes to increase the intensity between them. John places a pillow underneath Sherlock’s hips, and John reaches for the condoms and lube, but Sherlock stops him.

“Let me.” He rips open the small silver package and rolls the condom onto John’s length, then strokes him with a fair amount of lubricant. When he’s finished, he lies back, wrapping his long legs around John’s hips and thrusting in a display of what’s to come. John moans, desperate and wanting.

He spares a glance at Sherlock, who’s all but saying “ _get on with it, then._ ” He takes himself in hand, guiding it to Sherlock’s entrance and pushes in, just to the head. It’s hot, and tight, and fucking glorious. It takes all his restraint not to slide in to the base of his cock and just _take_.

“You alright?” He breathes.

“Yes, just, go slow,” Sherlock whispers, closing his eyes. John does, pushing in centimetres at a time, holding himself back. When he’s fully inside, he glances down his body to see their forms completely connected like this, and groans. He licks at Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock arches into the contact, hardening again after losing some arousal to the adjustment pain.

“You’re so lovely, Sherlock, _fuck_ , this feels so nice,” John breathes against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock hums and runs his hands down John’s sides. “Move,” he directs, shifting his hips slightly in encouragement, his legs tightening around John’s own.

John thrusts once, and drowns in the pure pleasure of it. Sherlock lifts one arm to tug at his own curls, and brings the other hand to touch his cock. John can tell he’s lost in it, too. He thrusts again, and again, and Sherlock starts to push back against him, more forcefully now.

“Oh, you’re perfect, so perfect,” John speeds his thrusts. Open-mouthed and panting, Sherlock lets go of his cock, letting the friction of John’s thrusts stimulate him. He uses his now-free hand to scratch along John’s back and side.

“Want to make you come,” John growls. He sits back and changes the angle so he can pull Sherlock’s hips onto him. This results in a spectacular moan. John grins; he’s found the prostate. “Touch yourself.”

Sherlock immediately wraps a hand around his cock, stroking fast. He’s close. “Harder, John.”

John’s fingers are practically burning holes in Sherlock’s hips with how hard he’s pressing into them. The sight of him, flushed and sweaty, bouncing up and down on the pillow is nearly enough to send John over the edge. Not yet, though. “Come for me,” John pants. “Come all over yourself with me inside you.”

Sherlock bites his lip, hard. “ _John_ , I want that, yes-“

“That’s it, love, let go,” John’s voice turns sweet, and Sherlock lets out a low moan and comes in bursts over his chest. John’s eyes darken. He focuses on the sensations: Sherlock, pliable after orgasm around his cock, lean and muscular under his fingers, breathing heavily, hair wild against the white pillow.

“Come inside me, John,” Sherlock says. It’s all the encouragement John needs. An intense wave of arousal courses through him, and after a few well-placed thrusts, he comes in one long release, falling on top of Sherlock’s chest.

“Christ, that was good,” John mumbles against Sherlock’s skin. He tastes a salty mix of sweat and semen.

Sherlock hums in agreement. “ _Far_ better than adequate.”

John chuckles, pulling out and padding to the loo to dispose of the condom. He wets a flannel with warm water for Sherlock. Once they’re clean, John wraps his arms around Sherlock from behind and kisses his shoulder. They settle into comfortable silence. John tries to make his mind go blissfully blank; his body is sated and calm, but in the back of his mind, there’s still the one nagging thought, a constant low thrumming for the past week: Harry’s dead. He feels safe and so _happy_ with Sherlock in his arms, but it won’t bring Harry back. He feels a pang of loss in his stomach. It’s dulled by the sex-fueled serotonin coursing through him, but still there. He hugs Sherlock tighter.

“It’s okay to miss her, you know,” Sherlock says, breaking the silence. “You’re human.”

John is reminded of Sherlock’s similar comment some months ago. He nods against Sherlock’s neck. “I think she’d be secretly thrilled for us. She’d act like a right dick about it, though. Her being right all this time.”

Sherlock hums in agreement.

“Clara,” John says, wrapping one of his fingers in a stray curl on Sherlock’s head. “You like her, don’t you.”

“What’s not to like?” Sherlock’s voice is relaxed, unbothered. John loves this post-coital Sherlock. “She’s been pleasant enough these past few days.”

“No, I can tell when you genuinely enjoy someone’s company. You think she’s interesting.” John’s fingers are giving Sherlock a full-on scalp massage, now.

Sherlock breathes out, blissful and sleepy. “I do.”

John smiles, putting the pieces together. “You see herself in her a bit, I think.”

“Hm. Clever boy,” Sherlock tilts his head so John’s fingers can scratch the other side. He’s like a cat, John thinks, he’s practically mewing.

“She loved a Watson even when Harry decided not to be with her. Even when Clara couldn’t help Harry help herself.”

“Watsons are annoyingly stubborn, it seems.”

“Don’t you start,” John slaps his bum playfully. He chuckles, but quickly turns serious. “I’m going to need help, Sherlock. With Rosie. With the drinking. With my anger. But the difference between me and Harry, now, is that I’m going to let you help me. And I’m _actually_ going to let my therapist help me.”

Sherlock turns so he’s facing John. He’s all swollen lips, mussed hair, pliable body, gentle eyes. John thinks of Clara’s expression from this morning: “ _This one looks thoroughly shagged_ ”. He smiles at the truth of it, now.

“That’s good, John. That’s really good.”

“And none of that ‘Make John Watson save me’ crap, okay?” He thinks of the Culverton case and shudders.

“Not even in the bedroom?” Sherlock asks cheekily.

_Oh._ “Well, now, that’s a separate discussion,” he emphasizes it with a squeeze of his bum.

“Possibly a soldier/civilian roleplay. Preferably in uniform,” Sherlock’s eyes gaze appreciatively down John’s body, as if imagining him dressed in camo. John conjures an image of his own; dog tags slapping against his chest as Sherlock rides him. “Doctor/patient could be interesting, too.”

“You’re mad,” John laughs, punctuating it with a kiss. Sherlock leans into it, and they kiss and kiss until their lips are chapped, until they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

The next morning, Mrs. Hudson makes them a full English to celebrate John and Rosie’s official moving in, her boys back together.

That afternoon, John collects more things from his other flat. Then, he and Sherlock make a pointed phone call to an Anita Stimson.

An article on the Daily Mail website is released an hour later. It reads:

**Celebrity Detective Sherlock Holmes and Partner John Watson Confirmed Couple after Watson’s Emotional Eulogy**

March 27, 2017 4:21pm by Anita Stimson

_The relationship status of famous crime-solving duo, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson has been a subject of speculation for years. But after a video of Watson publicly confessing his love for Holmes during a speech at his sister’s funeral went viral on Twitter Saturday, the pair confirmed they are a couple. _

_“It was an emotional day, and I was tired of hiding it from the world. There was no need to keep our love a secret anymore,” said Watson of the video._

_An anonymous funeral attendee said, “Watson’s speech was heart wrenching, and really quite sweet. Everyone there was talking about it afterwards, but Watson was interestingly nowhere to be seen at the funeral reception to ask him about it. Neither was Holmes.”_

_Watson was previously married to Mary Morstan, whom he met after Holmes faked his suicide in 2011. Morstan was killed by Vivian Norbury last year. When asked how long Holmes and Watson have been together, they declined to comment, but assured that it was after Morstan’s death. Watson has a young child from that marriage, and he and Sherlock are raising the baby together. _

_Watson has had a painful year, with the death of his ex-wife and now the death of his sister, Harriet Watson. Harriet died last week in a drink-driving accident. In the wake of her death, Holmes and Watson urge readers to donate to the We Are With You organization, a UK-wide treatment agency that helps individuals, families, and communities manage the effects of drug and alcohol misuse. In Watson’s speech at her funeral, he claimed Harriet “was right about everything when it came to [him] and Sherlock.” _

Sherlock scrunches his nose in distaste. “What an awful, clickbait headline. Makes it seem like I was the one who died.”

John gives him a warning look. “Don’t go getting any ideas, Mr. ‘Faked his Suicide in 2011’.” He glances at his mobile again, skimming the article over. “Hey, who was the arsehole ‘anonymous funeral attendee’ who made it seem like we skived off Harry’s funeral to shag?”

Sherlock considers. “Didn’t we?”

“Not the point.”

“It was an old school friend of Harry’s. The one with the dark wavy hair and the cheekbones. Used to fancy you, actually.”

John smiles. “Sounds like my type.”

Sherlock looks affronted. “Don’t go getting any ideas, Mr. Heart Wrenching and Really Quite Sweet.”

“Wouldn’t dare.” John leans over on the sofa to kiss Sherlock’s cheek, and he softens. “Glad we got that bit in there about the donations. Makes it worth it, in my eyes.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle in the afternoon sun beaming into the flat. “Agreed, John.”

“I wuv you!” Rosie agrees.

That evening, Rosie stands against the doorframe of 221B. John makes a tick, and writes:

84.0 cm, Move to 221B

Above it, there are two ticks:

169 cm, John

183 cm, Sherlock

It feels like home.


End file.
